


This is (Private) Property

by eqyptiangold



Series: A Collection of Sterek One Shots [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, only like 800 words of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eqyptiangold/pseuds/eqyptiangold
Summary: Stiles kisses him, rough and messy, just to try and silence the delighted pounding of his treacherous heart that still hasn’t figured out that Derek is Not Interested, capital letters and all, in Stiles as anything more than a friend and occasional fuck. “Okay,” Derek breathes softly into his mouth, readjusting them until Stiles doesn’t have to stretch his neck.Maybe it’s that casual act of kindness, or just the whole night, but either way Stiles somehow forgets, just for a moment, that he has a line of Sharpie along his manscaped crotch-area. He abruptly remembers, just as Derek is unzipping his jeans and stripping Stiles out of them. “Wait, shit-” Stiles manages, just before the crooked purple letters are on full display. “Fuck,” he whispers, shutting his eyes and waiting for Derek to make fun of him or something.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: A Collection of Sterek One Shots [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1243292
Comments: 7
Kudos: 288





	This is (Private) Property

**Author's Note:**

> TW: panic attacks. see end notes for how to skip past that scene!

Stiles has to stop sleeping with Derek. 

He has had a very _not-casual-with-no-strings_ crush on Derek for six months, and he’s been in _extremely_ _not_ -casual-with-no-strings love with Derek for three. Overall, it’s the perfect recipe for heartbreak. Since Scott is very invested in the wellness of Stiles’ heart, he’s consequently become the biggest advocate for Stiles removing the benefits from his friendship with Derek. Case in point, last night Scott pinned down a sad-drunk Stiles and wrote _Property of Victor_ on the shaved skin right above Stiles’ dick. 

However, Victor is not, in fact, the significant other that he’s meant to come across as. Victor doesn’t actually exist; it’s merely the first name Stiles thought of when Scott pulled out a purple Sharpie and drunkenly slurred, “What’s a hot name?” Sad, drunk Stiles is apparently very attracted to people named Victor. 

Yet, with all the meticulous planning that went into it, Stiles still finds himself lying in Derek’s bed. They’re still clothed and preoccupied with passing a joint back and forth, but the comfortable ease and Derek’s hand carding through Stiles’ hair is almost more emotionally taxing than the sex. It feels like they could actually be a couple. Sighing weakly, Stiles shifts closer to Derek. His head slides up along Der’s broad shoulder until he’s nestled in against his fuck-buddy’s neck. It hurts in Stiles’ chest when Derek automatically winds his arm around Stiles’ back, gently rubbing along his side. “What’s wrong, sweet thing?” The familiar pet name feels like sticky, warm honey and sugar on Stiles’ ears and he groans softly into Derek’s neck. He loves this man so much it hurts. “Hey,” Derek says softly, and he props himself up enough to tug Stiles’ head into his lap and look at him, one hand still scratching at Stiles’ scalp. The older student drops the joint onto an ashtray, bought for him with a [rolling tray set](https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/456974693444653971/) as a joke from Stiles.

Stiles kisses him, rough and messy, just to try and silence the delighted pounding of his treacherous heart that still hasn’t figured out that Derek is Not Interested, capital letters and all, in Stiles as anything more than a friend and occasional fuck. “Okay,” Derek breathes softly into his mouth, readjusting them until Stiles doesn’t have to stretch his neck. 

Maybe it’s that casual act of kindness, or just the whole night, but either way Stiles somehow forgets, just for a moment, that he has a line of Sharpie along his manscaped crotch-area. He abruptly remembers, just as Derek is unzipping his jeans and stripping Stiles out of them. “Wait, shit-” he manages, just before the crooked purple letters are on full display. “Fuck,” Stiles whispers, shutting his eyes and waiting for Derek to make fun of him or something. 

There’s a long pause and, if not for Derek’s legs still pressed against his, Stiles would start to wonder if he had left the room. “‘Property of Victor’?” Derek asks, and Stiles’ blood must be rushing too loudly in his ears because it sounds almost like Der’s voice is weak and shaky. “Thought this was private property,” he mutters, and Stiles flushes red. Admittedly, he’s not getting action anywhere else, but Derek doesn’t have to act like it’s such an obvious assumption. Stiles Stilinski, lonely loser who can’t get dick from anyone except for the best friend he stupidly fell for. 

“It’s not cheating,” Stiles lies smoothly before said friend thinks he’s cheating on this ‘Victor’ with Der—well, it honestly isn’t cheating, but only because Victor doesn’t exist. “We’re not exclusive or anything.” Can’t be exclusive with someone who doesn’t fuckin’ exist. 

“Oh,” Derek says, and Stiles’ eyes are still shut and the pounding in his ears is only beginning to slow because Der sounds like he’s just been punched in the gut. “Right. Yeah. Not… not exclusive.” 

“So… we’re good, right? Want to keep this party going?” Stiles opens his eyes and Derek’s expression changes too quickly for him to make it out. All attempts at not-sleeping with Derek have gone out the window for the night, especially now that Stiles is hard against his muscular thigh. Speaking of, Stiles very unsubtly squirms against Derek and realizes that the older college student has gone soft. “Shit. Is the marker by my dick a total turn-off?” Stiles tugs his boxers back up onto his hips and wonders if the temporary tattoo is going to end up fulfilling its original purpose, even now that he’s moved on from that goal. 

“No, it’s—I’m fine,” Derek says quickly, and he pulls Stiles into another rough kiss. 

“Hey, lemme suck you,” Stiles pants into his mouth, gently biting Derek’s lower lip in a way that makes Der groan softly. “My fault, right? I’ll fix it.” He slides down Derek’s body, pausing just for a moment to bite his hip and lick the resulting bloom of pale pink color. Stiles can already imagine the familiar color that the hickey will take on Der’s skin. He moves on to his fuck-buddy’s cock before he can linger any longer. The heavy weight is familiar in his mouth and, even mostly soft, Derek’s cock bumps against the back of Stiles’ throat before he’s even reached the root. 

“Ah, fuck,” Der hisses softly, his fingers tightening in Stiles’ hair almost instantly. “Love y- this new fucking hair,” he groans, tugging and making Stiles moan around him. “The buzzcut was so fucking cute, but-” he cuts off with a litany of curses when Stiles swirls his tongue around the head. Derek is fully hard now, his foreskin pulled back, and Stiles takes it deeper into his mouth until he’s choking on it. “Fuck, fuck, Stiles,” Derek pants. After only a few seconds, Stiles gets his gag reflex under control and can swallow around it. He continues for a while, bobbing his head to tongue at Derek’s frenulum and taking him back into his throat, long enough for Der to groan and pull him away. “Stop, ‘gonna come, want you inside me.”

Stiles drops a kiss on the head of Derek’s cock and sits up. “Want me to stretch you?” he suggests, licking his lips pointedly. 

Derek growls softly. “I’m gonna come if you do,” he groans, pouting remorsefully, and Stiles wants to marry him, fuck. 

“What if I use my fingers only?” Stiles offers, reaching for the lube tucked into Derek’s headboard. The storage space in the new bed is a particular highlight of accidentally breaking the old dorm bed. Not that Stiles didn’t greatly appreciate the sight of Der’s ass as he hung off the shitty metal-frame beds to reach for fallen lube bottles. 

“Don’t be a dick about it,” Derek replies, rolling onto his stomach. 

Stiles is very much a dick about it, rubbing alternating rough and feather-light strokes across his prostate until lube is dripping down Derek’s thigh and he’s rutting against the mattress. By the time he’s stretched, Derek has been brought to edge at least three times. Finally, Stiles removes his fingers and smears the remaining lube on Der’s inner thigh because he knows it turns him on. Leaning across Derek’s back to whisper in his ear, Stiles asks, “You ready?” 

“ _Yes_ , you fucking asshole,” Derek groans, arching his ass back and grinding roughly. “Just fuck me, please, wanna feel you.” 

“Okay, gorgeous, do you want to roll on your back?” Stiles offers, sitting up, and he can’t help but massage the perfect ass just sitting there in front of him. 

“Anything you want,” Derek says, arching back into the touch. “You like me on my hands and knees, right?” Stiles blinks. In years of friendship and months of sleeping together, Der has never been this compliant and seemingly desperate to please. 

“Yeah, if that’s what you want,” he agrees, and Derek adjusts until he’s propped up on his elbows with his back arched beautifully. Stiles gives him gentle butt pats that Der usually protests against unless he’s too into it to try to pretend he doesn’t like it. Instead, the older man just arches his back more and bounces a bit. “You’re so subby today,” Stiles murmurs, pressing a kiss to Der’s lower back. 

“Not good?” Derek asks, and the hint of insecurity in his voice sounds so wrong it makes Stiles feel slightly itchy. “Just… want to be whatever you want. _Everything_ you want,” Derek mutters, before instantly tensing. “Ignore me,” he says quickly. “Fuck me? Or I can suck you if you want. Sorry, I haven’t really done anything for you-” 

“Shut up, sweet cheeks,” Stiles interrupts, rubbing small circles with his thumbs on Der’s behind. “You know I love your ass. Don’t worry so much, okay?” 

“Don’ wanna lose you to _Victor_ ,” Derek mutters, but he reaches behind him and slides back on Stiles’ dick before Stiles can parse his meaning. Momentarily, Stiles is entranced by Derek’s pretty, pretty fingers swiping across sweaty skin and smearing the purple marker. After that, Derek seems to momentarily regain his confidence, although he still thrusts back with even more emphasis on Stiles’ pleasure over his own than usual. Before long, Stiles is close, already riled up from watching Derek writhe through his blowjob and stretching. He wraps a hand around Derek’s cock and fucks him harder, taking advantage of every trick and hitting every sensitive spot he’s learned. It effectively drowns Der in too much pleasure to focus on anything else. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” Stiles pants.

“I love you,” Derek whimpers as he comes. 

Stiles’ body reacts before his mind, and he finishes with a thready moan of “I love you too.” 

The afterglow, the fantastic golden delight pulsing in Stiles’ chest like nothing he’s ever felt, turns sour in seconds. “Fuck,” he groans. Goddamn lovesick idiot, replying to a heat-of-the-moment fucking _lie_ with a real confession, fuck fuck _fuck_. Stiles can feel a panic attack coming on, and he scrambles out of bed with limbs that feel like they’re the wrong fit for his body. “Can’t fuckin’ do this,” he pants, fighting to control his breathing until he can at least get out of this fucking dorm to go panic in his own. Fuck, fuck, he’s so— Stiles can’t do this. He fucked up so bad, Jesus fuck, Derek’s never going to— 

“Stiles?” Derek asks softly. He reaches for Stiles’ wrist and it’s too sweet, too caring, too much that Stiles wants it be but- fuck! Too much of what Stiles wants but can’t have. 

_I can’t right now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry sorry,_ Stiles thinks, but the words just linger in his throat like a gag. He can’t feel his fingers. No, they’re tingling and _angry_ and- oh shit will Derek get angry? Fuck, Stiles can’t fucking do this. He needs out. He can’t be here. Derek reaches for him and Stiles jerks away. Fake fucking pity. Why did Derek have to say that? Why did Stiles have to say it _back_ , fuck! He needs out. He can’t _fucking_ do this. 

“I’m sorry, I thought-” Derek stammers, stumbling over himself to try and follow. Stiles’ throat croaks weakly, words trapped like a hornet’s nest in his throat. He staggers towards the door, pushing his way out even as Derek keeps talking, words that get drowned out in the buzz of Stiles’ mind. 

“Just fuck off!” he screeches, hands shaking as he attempts to escape from the man he’s in fucking love with. Fuck, he’s never going to- this is… it’s all fucked, Stiles fucked it up. 

It’s only constant use that lets him follow the path to Scott’s room, thoughts racing in a disjointed mess, and he finally manages to weakly smack a loose hand against the door. He nearly falls when Scott opens it, and Scott catches him instinctually. Frantically, Stiles shoves him away and collapses to the floor, dragging himself into the corner of the room. He curls around his legs tightly, air clogging his throat. 

The rest of it is a blur. Scott talks him through it as best he can, carefully sitting back just far enough to let Stiles feel reassured in his presence without wanting to throw something at Scott. It’s only when the panic attack ends that he stammers, “Can you- Scott… need-” he weakly extends his arms, wiggling his fingers to try and fight off the harsh buzzing beneath his skin. Scott comes closer, slowly gathering Stiles into his lap and rubbing his arms. “Sorry, sorry,” Stiles huffs. “I’m sorry, sorry. Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Scott reassures. “Love you, man.” The words make tears spring to Stiles’ eyes and he huddles closer to his best friend, breathing weakly into his shoulder until exhaustion sets in, and he falls asleep. 

Hours later, Stiles wakes up in Scott’s bed with his best bro wrapped around him. “I fucked up,” Stiles mumbles into the quiet air. Scott sleepily tugs him closer, petting Stiles’ stomach. 

“ ‘M listenin’,” he mumbles. 

“Derek said ‘I love you’,” Stiles mutters. “And I said it back.” He grabs Scott’s arm and clings on, nestling his nose into the familiar soft fabric of his best friend’s shirt sleeve. 

“Isn’t that good?” Scott asks, voice neutral. 

“He said it because I was giving him a really good orgasm and I said it because I actually love him. He’s going to know I meant it and never want to talk to me again.” Stiles whines softly and cuddles into Scott’s chest. “I’m going to cry in my dorm.” He peers behind him, catching sight of the half-broken digital clock sitting on Scott’s bedside table. “You have class. Can I have your hoodie? I need the emotional support of my platonic bro husband.” 

“Do you want me to skip?” Scott offers. Slowly, he and Stiles sit up and Scott strips down to his t-shirt and guides the cozy lacrosse hoodie over Stiles’ head. “Anything for my hubby.” Stiles chuckles softly and tugs the hood up, nestling into the soft fabric. 

“Go to class. Bring back ice cream please.” Stiles wraps his bestie in a tight hug before crawling out of bed, scrubbing messily at the dry tear tracks on his cheeks. He walks to his room, right across from Scott’s, and unlocks it with the key he finds in Scott’s hoodie pocket. As soon as he’s inside, Stiles collapses onto his cheap mattress and drags his blankets over his head and buries himself in it. Tears sting his eyes as they drip down his cheeks, everything overheating as Stiles pants into the enclosed space under too many blankets. Before long, he falls into a fevery, miserable sleep. 

— 

Derek doesn’t ever want to move. He’s going to lie in this bed, that still smells like Stiles and _fucking_ Sharpie, until his bones turn to dust and all his organs and his shitty battered heart dissolve into nothing. 

Desperately, so fucking desperately, Derek wants to talk to Stiles. He wants to ask what changed, why the love of his fucking life decided to date someone else named Victor. He wants to ask where he misunderstood, because Derek thought he and Stiles were dating and happy and in love, even if they never said it, and then Stiles showed up with someone else’s name branded above his cock. Derek just wants to ask how Stiles said, casual as nothing, that he wasn’t cheating on Derek because they weren’t exclusive. That particular revelation was a punch in the fucking gut, and Derek groans despairingly into his empty dorm. He wants to ask what Stiles even thought they were. 

Most of all, Derek wants to know why confessing his love was enough to make Stiles break up with him. 

But Derek’s fingers also start feeling numb with terror when he considers what the responses could be, so he’s going to lie in the bed that Stiles was in roughly twenty-four hours ago and turn to dust. It’s a reasonable reaction, no matter what Erica and Boyd and Isaac keep saying. Erica and Boyd are happily dating and Isaac is just too much of an asshole to get his heart broken, so none of them get a say in this. 

Just as he’s thinking that, Erica bursts into the room. “We’re getting wasted,” she announces; maybe she deserves some say. Clad in a tight black dress, she pauses in front of Derek’s mirror to fluff her hair and adjust the ample amounts of cleavage she’s sporting. “Get dressed.” 

“Shower first,” Isaac says, pointedly looking Derek up and down with a scathing crinkle in his brows. 

“Fuck off,” Derek grumbles, even as he drags himself out of bed and heads for the dorm showers. He doesn’t bother grabbing a change of clothes; he can already see Erica digging through his drawers, reaching the bottom where he hides the over-tight jeans that he hasn’t worn in months. The shower is quick and efficient, save for a short crying session when he has to scrub a smear of purple Sharpie from his ass. It feels like a particularly low point in Derek’s life. 

Afterward, when Derek has toweled himself off and pokes his head out from behind the shower curtain, Erica is lurking outside the stall with his clothes. She has never once given a single shit about entering the men’s washrooms. Derek mutters a grumpy thanks when he takes the clothes, and doesn’t protest when Erica pushes past the curtain to adjust Derek’s shirt until she’s satisfied with the amount of chest and bicep on display. “Try to actually flirt and not just sit in the corner and glare at people,” she says, patting his abs encouragingly. “A meaningless hookup is good for the soul.” 

“You’re in a loving, monogamous, committed relationship,” Derek replies flatly. 

“And you just found out that your ex-boyfriend is an asshole. This is the moment meaningless sex was made for.” Erica smacks Derek’s ass and drags him out of the shower stall, waving cheerily at the shocked looking guy standing by the mirrors just a towel. 

“Sorry for her,” Derek mutters. “She’s not a perv; she just doesn’t really get the whole personal space thing.” The stranger nods fearfully and borderline runs out of the bathroom with an iron-tight grip on his towel. “Must you scare the other people in our dorm?” 

Erica snorts. “Not my fault. Now shut up and go sit on the counter so I can fix your hair.” 

With a loud sigh, Derek complies. 

Half an hour later, Derek is standing in the corner of a dorm hallway and downing straight vodka from a Solo cup. Another ten minutes after that, and he’s sitting down against the wall and abandoned the cup altogether to drink right from the bottle. Erica stops by once in a while to take a pull from his bottle and point out cute people nearby that he could hit on. Boyd or Isaac also join him occasionally; Boyd to sit and pass the bottle back and forth, and Isaac to bitch and gossip about various people at the party. Strangers approach him once in a while and make attempts to hit on him, but Derek’s scowl tends to scare them off within a few minutes.

Eventually, by the time Derek is beginning to tilt sideways, a girl flops onto the floor next to him. “You look awful,” she announces pleasantly. “Hot as fuck, but fucking awful. Want a hit?” she offers him a joint with ash still clinging to the tip. 

“Yeah, alright.” Derek accepts it, handing over his claimed bottle of Smirnoff in exchange. As a delayed response to her comment, he tacks on, “You’ve got makeup smeared everywhere.” 

“Yeah,” the girl—and Derek realizes he still doesn’t know her name—agrees. “I look like I’m a mess because I’m drunk. You look like a mess who gets drunk because he’s a mess.” She blinks at him blankly for a moment after speaking. “Fuck, that was a lot of thinking. Did that make sense?” 

“Probably,” Derek confirms, and he holds out the joint while reaching for the Smirnoff with his other hand. 

Fifteen minutes later, Derek finds himself with a lapful of the girl, whose name he still doesn’t know, while she sucks at his neck and grinds against him. For someone who has an objectively hot girl actively dry-humping him, Derek feels very… detached. He’s too high to cry about Stiles, but also too wasted to stop thinking about him. Eventually, Derek nudges the girl out of his lap, feeling very vacant even as she raises her eyebrows irritably at him. “Ex,” he mutters, slowly dragging himself to his feet. She rolls her eyes and clambers to her feet. With a jaunty salute, exuding sarcasm and irony, the unnamed girl strides away on thick black shoes. 

Derek slides further down the wall, peering at the party still going strong around him. “Fuck,” he announces matter-of-factly, speaking to no one. With a quietly disgruntled sigh, he stands up and peers around in search of an escape from the noise that’s finally beginning to get to him. Upon finding absolutely none, because it’s college and all that, Derek heads for the stairwell down to his own dorm hall. A momentary detour to bid Erica and Boyd and Isaac goodbye rewards Derek with a half bottle of pineapple Smirnoff. Afterward, he clatters down the steps, thinking about Stiles’ chaotic way of smashing down stairs like he _wants_ to fall. “Fuck,” Derek repeats, appreciating the echo. 

He stomps down the last few steps, borderline jumping, for no discernible reason. When he finally reaches his own dorm hall, Derek pauses long enough to take it in before he’s scowling at the ceiling. Overflow sounds from the party drift through it, and Derek redirects from his original path to his room and heads for the fire escape instead. Memories of slow makeout sessions with Stiles run through his mind, the brick against one of their backs, and a breeze twisting between them. Derek pauses to take a few pulls from the vodka bottle, appreciating the ensuing warmth that curls down his chest and into his stomach. 

Courage steeled, Derek slips through the window onto the fire escape. Chilly air makes his nose flush pink while also cooling the overheated red of his cheeks. Without Stiles there, warm and pressed against him, Derek feels bitterly aware of just how empty and dilapidated the fire escape really is. “Fuck,” he mutters, but his voice breaks weakly. 

Back pressed against the uneven layers of brick, he slides down the wall until his ass hits the perforated metal floor. Watching other drunk college students stagger along the sidewalks below him, vibrant and joyous, Derek tips his head back and lifts the shitty pineapple Smirnoff to his mouth. 

He’s not sure how much time passes, but the bottle is soon nearing empty and he finds himself lying on the metal grate, fingers dancing absently along the safety gating. When Stiles trundles out the window, wrapped in a blanket, Derek momentarily wonders if he’s hallucinating. 

“Derek?” Stiles asks softly, his voice small. 

“Fuck,” Derek huffs, and seeing his pretty ex-boyfriend standing there, with a fluffy shock of hair pluming above his head and looking so _soft,_ makes Derek feel like he’s been punched in the gut. He’s momentarily winded. 

“Shit,” Stiles mutters. His eyes, pretty whiskey-colored eyes, do a familiar dart as he looks Derek up and down. The gaze pauses on his neck, where a hickey is probably forming from Derek’s miserable attempt at a rebound hookup, and Stiles’ mien suddenly burns cold. Between the alcohol, exhaustion, and general heartbreak, Derek feels his chest become red-hot.

“Fuck off!” he snaps irritably, sitting up and dropping his bottle to the side. Distantly, Derek registers the way words are sliding off his tongue like melting ice cream. He’s slurring, quite atrociously. Stiles steps back like he’s been wounded, and Derek kind of wants to hit something, or cry. “You dumped _me_ ,” he growls, breathing heavily. “You slept with another guy and showed up with his name on you and dumped me just because I said-” Derek breaks off, feeling frustrated tears pooling by his lower eyelashes. 

Stiles’ lower lip is quivering. “What,” he asks flatly, voice a bare squeak. “ _I_ dumped _you_? I _dumped_ you? We weren’t dating!” He sounds hysterical, his hands flailing and making the blanket swirl around him. 

Derek feels hot, angry tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. “Right. We weren’t dating. Did this really mean fucking nothing to you?” He glances up, and Stiles’ face is wrapped around a confused expression while he clutches at his blanket. “Fuck. Right.” Derek desperately wants to leave, and maybe go cry in his dorm or do push-ups until he passes out or something, but Stiles is still standing in front of the window and looking infuriatingly cute. 

“I said I loved you!” Stiles cries out abruptly. “I don’t- I don’t get this. You’re the one who very clearly said we were just supposed to be casual with no strings! Fuck, this meant nothing to you. What are you- what do- _what_?” The blanket nearly falls from how much Stiles is flailing, and Derek’s heart does a traitorous little flip. 

“I said that almost a year ago,” Derek breathes out roughly, frustratedly digging his fingers into his thighs. “I thought you’d moved past it. Thought we were…” _Dating, in love, soulmates,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. “And I said that I loved you first,” Derek’s voice cracks, “and then you ran out and made sure to break up with me on your way.” 

Stiles slides to the floor, his blanket pooling around him as he drops his head into his hands. “Did you mean it?” His tone is weak, exhausted. It’s enough to make Derek spit out the truth, even if it still feels like this is all some cruel joke meant to fuck with him. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, melting onto his back to stare at the blank night sky. 

“Are we- were we-” Stiles makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat, echoing in the empty silence of the fire escape, “dating?” he finishes. 

“I thought we were,” Derek says, his voice flat. The bitterly cold metal on his back only makes him feel more numb, just wanting to drift away from wherever this conversation is going. He’s confused and exhausted and _hurt_ , and he just wants all of it to go away. 

“I really know how to fuck up a good thing, huh,” Stiles mutters, tone verging on hysteria once again. “Derek.” In his peripheral vision, Derek sees Stiles reach a hand out for his legs as if he wants to touch, but shies away at the last second. “I’ve been in love with you for three months. I thought- I thought you just wanted a friends with benefits thing. I’ve been trying to keep my fucking feelings a secret and- you thought we were dating all this time? I didn’t _dump_ you; I panicked, ‘cause I thought you’d said the L-word in a heat of the moment thing, and I’d gone and fucked it all up by confessing how I really felt. You- you love me?” 

Here, Derek is at a loss. All he can do is… stare, his eyes locked on a lone star floating in the sky. Everything from the past few months is suddenly thrown into question. On one hand, he feels relieved because, hey, Stiles didn’t break up with him! But on the other, Stiles only didn’t break up with him because he didn’t even think he and Derek were dating. Which, ouch. 

“Yeah,” Derek mutters. He sits up, eyeing his not-boyfriend critically. 

“Does that- so can we-” Stiles stammers, biting his lower lip roughly. Derek wants to kiss him. Stiles stutters out another few half-sentences, before his eyes suddenly slip to Derek’s neck. Previous thought seemingly forgotten, he asks roughly, “Are you with someone else?” 

The question takes a second to register, and even longer for Derek to figure out what brought it up. Subconsciously, he rubs his neck where the unknown girl was sucking a short while ago. “What, like you’re with Victor?” he asks bitterly. 

Stiles blinks. He stares for a moment before a short, slightly hysterical laugh escapes him. “Victor wasn’t real. Scott wrote that; it was supposed to keep me from sleeping with you again. I was trying to… to distance myself, because I had feelings and still thought. You know.” Stiles’ voice drops and he stares down at his blanket as his fingers tear at a loose thread. “That I was just an easy fuck to you.” It feels like the rug is constantly being pulled from beneath Derek’s feet, only to reveal a plush landing beneath it. “I never slept with anyone except you,” Stiles divulges. His eyes dart back to the hickey on Derek’s neck. “I just… I assumed you did.” 

“I didn’t,” Derek says quickly. “These are…” he rubs roughly at the hickeys. “Earlier tonight. I tried hooking up with someone else to feel better but… we only really kissed before I couldn’t do it anymore and I left.” 

Stiles seems to melt into the wall behind him. “So… we both love each other,” he starts, voice hesitant. Derek nods his confirmation. “Does that mean that this- so we- can we-? Can we date?” 

The solution feels too easy. Bare minutes ago, Derek thought Stiles was his ex-boyfriend. Then, Stiles was just his ex-fuck-buddy. Can they really just transition from that—along with all the general heartache that’s been plaguing Derek for the past twenty-four hours—and start dating? 

“Oh,” Stiles mumbles. His expression falls abruptly, displaying something painful before shuttering into a closed-off mask. “I fucked it up too much.” He curls his blanket tighter, slowly starting to get to his feet. “Right, I get it. Sorry.” His voice cracks, and Derek’s chest aches in response. 

Finally, throwing caution and fear to the wind, he throws an arm out and catches Stiles' forearm through the blanket. Tugging gently, Derek pulls the younger man into his lap with the lack of grace expected from a drunk college student and Stiles Stilinski. Stiles yelps softly in surprise, but Derek catches it with a kiss. “Oh,” Stiles breathes into his mouth, and a few seconds of scrambling finds him straddling Derek with their arms thrown around each other, hands gripping desperately at shirts and the blanket. 

“I love you,” Derek pants desperately. 

“I love you too,” Stiles promises. He clings to Derek like a lifeline, fingers digging into his back and metal uncomfortable beneath them both. It’s almost perfect. 

**Author's Note:**

> panic attack tw : skip from “Stiles can feel a panic attack coming on,” and ctrl F (or command F on mac) to search for “Hours later, Stiles wakes up in Scott’s bed with his best bro wrapped around him.” Summary: Stiles runs out from Derek's room and goes to Scott's room where Scott helps him through the panic attack and then Stiles falls asleep.


End file.
